


Somewhere in Sussex

by Ladycrafter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Humor, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 12:58:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6611485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycrafter/pseuds/Ladycrafter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock drags Molly on a case. He hasn't a clue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Always Need Me

**Author's Note:**

> I've sat on this for over a year now. I'll just post what I've got so far and see how far it goes, depending on how Sherlock decides to cooperate. Hints of Sherlolly but then he's a clueless git.

The man reached out a gloved hand and slowly twisted the door knob. A simple nudge of a finger and the door swung open silently. He slipped inside the room with the practised ease of one accustomed to stealth. Stopping just inside the threshold, he scanned the darkened room with hard eyes. A pale sliver of moonlight picked out the silhouette of a long coat where he stood still and silent by the door. The edge of a curtain fluttered weakly, lifted by a slight current of cold air wafting through a window left slightly ajar. The man flicked an eye toward the movement and grimaced disapprovingly. Careless that. He himself had often gained egress that way. People were often too lax with their personal security.

The quiet of the room was marred by the occasional rumble of a passing vehicle but the man paid it no heed. No, his attention was on his quarry. The vague outline of a bed could just be made out in the gloom. Soft, even breaths emanated from it. The man’s sharp eyes which saw and observed details more easily than most found the occupant of the bed easily. His intel was as usual, correct. His target slumbered on, unaware of his presence. He smirked in satisfaction as he adjusted the leather glove on one hand. This was going to be too easy. He took another quiet step into the room.

The man extended a long arm backwards and closing his eyes briefly to shield them, flicked a wall switch with an audible click. A blaze of light flooded the room, enough he hoped, to disorientate the bed’s occupant. His pale eyes adjusted quickly enough to the change. He strode over and loomed over the bed. "Wake up!" he commanded in a loud, peremptory voice. The occupant of the bed, a small woman with her hair fluffed out in a messy halo did not stir. The tall man frowned. This lack of response was unacceptable. He tried again. “Molly!”

Meanwhile, the woman in question winced at the unwelcomed intrusion but made no move to obey. Instead, she squeezed her eyes tight against the glare and rolled sideways to bury her face in her soft pillow. 

"Molly!" the stentorian voice boomed again, closer to her ear this time. She whimpered unhappily as she registered who owner of the loud voice must be. _No, no, no,_ she thought to herself, _Not tonight, please, I’m so tired._

Sherlock decided to change tactics. “Molleee,” he crooned huskily into her ear.

She tried to ignore his low, seductive baritone by burrowing further into her bed and curling herself into a ball, effectively cocooning herself in the warmth and safety of her eiderdown quilt. She remained as still as she could, rather like a tiny animal would hide in hopes that the predator hunting it would give up and leave. This hope proved futile. 

She heard an annoyed huff. "I said, wake up!" demanded her tormentor, impatiently this time, punctuating each word with a long finger jabbing between her shoulder blades, “I know you’re awake”. 

_Well, I am now,_ thought Molly to herself but it doesn’t mean I’m getting up. This is me saying no. Whatever it is. It’s for your own good. Whether for her own good or his, she was uncertain, probably both. 

“Molly, I said wake up!” The man sounded highly irritated now. 

She briefly considered her options. Aggravated assault with intent to murder was currently at the top of her list and she was fairly certain either Donovan or Lestrade, perhaps even both would help her hide the body considering how its owner had been behaving lately. With regret, she discarded the idea as one that required too much effort and would require her getting out of bed which rather ran counter to her current inclination. In the end, she opted for sticking an arm out and blindly batting at the offending digit. "Go away," she mumbled. It came out as a muffled "Ggrrray". 

She felt rather than heard the put upon sigh as the annoying presence moved away from her. When it remained blissfully quiet, she risked uncovering her head slowly and opened one wary eye to confirm that she was indeed alone. Good, he’s given up. If she hadn’t been still foggy with sleep, she would have been suspicious. Mildly grateful for the reprieve, Molly sighed in relief, then frowned when she realised that the inconsiderate git had left the lights on. Too tired to get up to turn them off, she settled for pulling her covers back over her head and quickly drifted off.

Not surprisingly, her peace didn’t last long. All too soon, Molly was once again awakened rudely from her slumber, this time by a large hand shaking her shoulder vigorously. As she struggled resentfully awake, floating in that limbo between wakefulness and sleep, the sweet aroma of strong coffee permeated her consciousness. The mild shock of realising that Sherlock had made coffee was sufficient to propel her fully towards the land of the living. She was about to throw back the covers to check what ailed the man when reason reasserted itself. Sherlock never, ever, made coffee or tea. Never. Well, not without purpose anyway and his motives then were usually suspect ones. Just ask John. No, it was a mere ploy to get her out of bed so nope, still not getting up, she thought to herself, keeping her eyes stubbornly closed, clutching her pillow tightly.

Molly heard the clatter of China as a mug was slammed down on her bedside table. She barely registered a peevish "For God's sake, I don't have time for this," before her covers were yanked unceremoniously off her semi-somnolent body. The sudden, unwelcome chill jolted her awake.

"What the hell, Sherlock?" she yelped, struggling upright into a sitting position. Brushing her hair out of her eyes, Molly looked up and saw him standing frozen with his buffering face on, his eyes trained on her, unblinking. 

Following his line of sight, Molly looked down and blushed crimson, remembering his disparaging remarks at that awful Christmas party so long ago. Well, she had been exhausted when she returned home, barely able to summon enough energy to strip her work clothes off. She had stepped out of them leaving them in an untidy pile at her feet and had stared blearily at her collection of pillows. The decision to forgo the effort of changing into pyjamas in favour of collapsing directly into her welcoming bed had been an easy one. Mortified, she yanked her duvet up to cover her bare breasts. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

The sudden movement seemed to rouse Sherlock from his daze. He slowly lifted his gaze up to her face. "Ah, well, yes," he stammered, averting his eyes, although they did flick back once to her chest area before sliding away again. "You, ah, well, you weren't answering your phone," he muttered. He seemed somewhat discombobulated. 

_Ha, so much for it’s just transport. He’s still a man after all,_ thought Molly. Tamping down her glee at being able to disconcert the detective, she glared at the tall bastard. "I turned it off because I didn't want an inconsiderate, thoughtless, insomniac, so called consulting detective annoying me at ..." she paused, glancing at her alarm clock, "... 4 in the morning." 

Sherlock visibly recovered his composure at her words. "Inconsiderate and thoughtless basically mean the same thing," he pointed out pedantically.

"You woke me up out of a sound sleep to correct my choice of words?" growled Molly dangerously. 

Sherlock thought she looked like an adorable, angry kitten. Wait, adorable? He swallowed, remembering belatedly that an angry Molly packed a strong wallop, ambidextrously too. He stuck his hands in his pockets and pouted, "No, of course not. I'm here because I need you." He raised his puppy dog eyes to her, a hopeful, boyish smile on his face and was disconcerted when it did not elicit the usual desired effect. She was glowering at him instead. His smile faltered. Molly Hooper was becoming immune to his charm, he realised with a pang, an unwelcome development but not an unexpected one he supposed.

Molly stared at him before closing her eyes and flopping backwards onto her mattress, determined to be strong in the face of adversity, namely Sherlock. "You always need me," she grumbled, mainly to fetch, carry and generally be your dogsbody she thought to herself. Aloud she said, "but whatever it is that you want, it can wait until I've had a proper night's or as is the case, morning's rest. You're not dragging me to Barts at this ungodly hour to pull a body or run some stupid tests for you. I’m too tired to acquiesce to your demands. Now go away and bother whoever's on duty." 

Sherlock looked shocked that she would deny him. She’d never done so before but he rallied gamely. "My tests are never stupid," he protested indignantly. "Besides, I'm not here for that."

Eyes still shut, Molly muttered, "Whatever. I'm still not leaving this bed. I've worked a double shift and now no thanks to you, have had exactly three hours sleep."

"Three hours is plenty," stated the man who never seemed to sleep, nor eat.

Molly drew a deep breath and rubbed her eyes wearily, "Maybe for you but not for normal people. I, for one, definitely need more than three hours, especially after working sixteen hours straight." She yawned, "If you need to see a body, go ask whoever's on duty. If you need a bolt hole, you’re welcome as usual but I warn you I’m not leaving my bed nor giving up my room, not this time. I’m too tired. Besides it’s MY bed."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and said slowly with painful restraint. "Molly, you're repeating yourself. As I stated earlier, I do not require you to run any tests or show me a body. I also do not require a bolt hole." He felt quite proud of himself for heeding John’s constant admonishment to be nicer and more polite to people in general, particularly to Molly, whom he felt Sherlock used abominably. His best friend could be such a nag at times, worse than his mother, really.

Molly cracked an eye open and asked exasperatedly, "Why are you here for then or are you here simply to annoy me?"

"Case, Molly. I need you to come with me on a case," Sherlock informed her, bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet, somewhat like Tigger on steroids thought Molly. _Oh, shite._ She raised herself onto her elbows and stared at him, eyes narrowing, “Sherlock, are you high? You’ve only just gotten out of rehab. Please don’t tell me you’ve relapsed.”

Sherlock stilled. He stared at her. Molly could have sworn he looked wounded but his expression was so fleeting she couldn’t be sure. “Okay, then I won’t,” he replied, dropping his eyes to his feet, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Her brow furrowed. “Oh, Sherlock,” she whispered, dismayed.

He looked up and eyed her apprehensively “You’re not going to slap me again, are you?” he asked.

“You promised. You told me you wanted to get clean and stay clean, not for John or your friends but for yourself because you wanted to.” Molly couldn’t help the shrill note in her voice.

Sherlock shot her a cross look, “No, Molly. I just told you I haven’t had a relapse. Weren’t you listening? You were with me when I destroyed my last syringe and buried my roll in that ridiculous ceremony you insisted on. I am not high. Look.” He shrugged off his heavy overcoat and threw it on her bed before removing his jacket revealing a crisp white shirt. Molly couldn’t help but stare at the buttons straining across his chest. How they stayed close was a miracle of good tailoring. With deliberate movements, he unbuttoned his cuffs and slowly rolled up his sleeves, one at a time. Molly stared hypnotised, following their trajectory upwards. The man could give a burlesque artist a run for their money if he ever decided to do so. When both sleeves were past his elbows, he thrust both arms out to her. 

There was silence while Molly examined the inside of Sherlock’s elbows closely. She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding when she noted the absence of fresh track marks.

“I didn’t inhale anything either. No heroin, no cocaine, no morphine, not even any of Mrs Hudson’s herbal remedies’”. He made air quotes around the last. “Not even a nicotine patch. The list is blank. I swear. I. Am. Clean.” His clear eyes locked onto hers. Molly rewarded him with a tremulous smile of relief. “Now,” he continued brightly, rubbing his hands together when the moment had passed, “back to the reason I’m here. I need you to accompany me on a case.”

Molly frowned, "Uh, see Sherlock, that's what John is for. Me not John, Me Molly," she said slowly as to a child. "You've mixed us up again. Now go away so I can go back to sleep." She waved a hand at him in dismissal.

Sherlock paused in the middle of rolling his sleeves back down, looking confused, "Of course you're not John. Why would you even say such a thing?" Molly raised an eyebrow and gave him a long look to which he answered hastily, "Well, you're awake now and I need an assistant. John's not available so you will have to do. The Watson's are away visiting John's sister. I have no idea why."

At first, Molly was a little hurt to be Sherlock’s second choice but immediately shrugged it off as business as usual and tried to be flattered that he thought of her as an adequate substitute at all. She remembered John had mentioned going away to celebrate his sister's birthday. "It's Harry's 40th birthday. She's throwing a big bash at a country house somewhere. I'm sure John must have told you," she reminded him. "Turning forty is a big deal," she told him then added, "for some people anyway."

Sherlock stared at her uncomprehendingly. "As I said, no idea why," he repeated.

Molly shook her head bemusedly, then frowned as a new thought crossed her mind. She asked curiously, "How did you get in here anyway? I thought you said my new locks were burglar proof."

Sherlock gave her a pitying look. "I installed them for you myself, Molly. Of course I made sure to keep a set of keys, not that I need them. I do like to keep in practise," he replied. 

_Of course he did._

He flashed a Sherlockian smile at her, “I made you coffee. I know you’re not a morning person and require caffeine to jumpstart you as they put it.” At her suspicious look, he heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes, “And no, I did not drug it.” He then crossed over to her wardrobe, opened the doors and made a small moue of disapproval at the selection within before pulling out some clothes and flinging them at her. "Get up, get changed," he ordered briskly. Moving to her dresser, he pulled out the top drawer and peered in. 

Her eyes widened. _Oh, God,_ thought Molly, flushing red. He wouldn't, would he? Who was she kidding, of course he would. How did he know which drawer she kept her underwear in, she wondered. The only valid conclusion was that he'd been poking his nose into her things when he used her bedroom as a bolt hole, which meant that he'd more than likely found her "personal friend" as well, which she kept hidden, stuffed at the back. _Oh, god, oh god, oh god,_ Molly was sure she was the colour of beetroot now as Sherlock stuck a hand in. Her horror grew apace as she watched him withdraw it with a racy, black g-string dangling from one finger. He cocked an eyebrow at it. “This one is new,” he observed, studying the scrap of sheer lace in his hands with clinical interest. “Not much material to it, is there? Not very practical.” he said matter-of-factly. His eyes narrowed as he eyed her speculatively, “So, why bother?” 

Molly started as Sherlock turned back to the drawer. "Stop, right there," she ordered. Shoulders slumped, knowing he was never going to leave her alone until she agreed to accompany him, Molly sighed, defeated, "I can get my own underwear." She sat up slowly, clutching her covers close and tried to ignore his triumphant smirk. She reached a hand out and grabbed the mug of rapidly cooling coffee and took a swig from it to settle her nerves. "I'll need a shower first," she declared. The look she gave him as he leaned against her dresser indicated that this was non-negotiable.

"Yes, yes, just be quick about it," Sherlock said impatiently as he turned away from the dresser. He retrieved his phone from his suit pocket and began texting furiously on it. Molly stared at him. Finally, he raised his head and asked, "What?"

"I'm not getting out of bed with you standing there," she told him.

A crinkle developed above his nose. "Why not?" he asked. Molly looked pointedly at him. His incipient frown cleared as he finally understood her objection, "I've already seen you undressed. It's not like there'll be anything new. Besides, it's all just transport." He waved an airy hand. She made no move. The silence stretched. "Fine," he huffed and turned his back and continued with his texting.

Molly stared at his back. Realising that this was as much a compromise as she was going to get, Molly grabbed her clothing and covering herself as best she could with them, scrambled out of bed. She brushed past him and quickly grabbed the first set of bras and knickers to hand, not bothering to check if they matched. She was shuffling off towards her bathroom when his low baritone stopped her, "You really have nothing to be ashamed of, Molly." She halted in her shuffle and looked over her shoulder at him. Shocked was a mild word to describe her feelings at finding Sherlock with his head tilted, examining her bum.

Molly's eyes widened. Wait, was Sherlock checking her out? Was that... a compliment? She swallowed the fresh blush that threatened to engulf her and straightened her spine. However, his next remark deflated her new found confidence. "After all, nudity is natural no matter one's size or shape." He paused, “or weight.” She shut her eyes and bit her lip. The prat could jolly well wait.


	2. I Thought You'd Drowned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly start off for Sussex.

Molly closed the bathroom door behind her and sagged against it, eyes half closed, exhaustion permeating every pore. Goodness but she was tired. It had been a long day, yet another one in what seemed like a never ending series of many, only some of which could be attributed to the detective in the other room. Sherlock’s demanding attitude had alienated every other pathologist in Bart’s early on to the point they would rather face a root canal than even stay in the same room he did. Besides, they also had families to go home to so Molly voluntarily took a lot of the extra shifts on her slender shoulders. This left her the only one able and more importantly willing to work with the man, a fact everyone in her department knew and exploited shamelessly. Self-inflicted, really. Why did she let her colleagues and that man steam roll all over her again? Grow a backbone, woman, she scolded herself half heartedly. _Yeah, right._

What she needed was a nice, hot shower to wake her up. Yep, that’s what she needed. Actually, what she needed was some shut eye but that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. She grimaced. Enough with the pity fest already. Giving herself a little shake, she straightened up and hung her clothes up on a hook behind the door.

She walked to the shower stall and leaned in to turn on the shower taps. Water gushed and she shivered involuntarily when a stray splash of icy water hit her arm. The old pipes groaned and shuddered like an arthritic old man trying to stand. When the stall started to steam up, Molly fiddled with the temperamental old taps adjusting the temperature. Satisfied, she stepped into the stall and groaned in bliss as hot water cascaded over her head. Molly braced herself against the wall, letting the pulsating spray knead her aching shoulder muscles like powerful fingers. Unbidden images of Sherlock enjoying the shower with her popped into her head. She groaned in frustration. The shower continued to pulsate. _Get a grip, woman._

Molly gasped as the spray of water hit her in the face when she turned around to readjust the shower head. She grabbed her shampoo bar. A tune from a musical she watched on the telly with Mary popped into her head as she lathered, _I’m gonna wash that man right outta my hair,_ she sang to herself softly. She stuttered a bit at that line, wondering if Sherlock could hear her before shrugging and singing louder. Who cares? Let him hear her. 

As she rinsed, Molly fantasised about the various ways she’d say no to Sherlock the next time he demanded a favour at an inconvenient time. Ah, hell, who was she kidding she ruefully admitted to herself as she squeezed the excess water out and ran conditioner through her fine, silky hair. When it came to Sherlock, she had as much willpower as a …, well as a …, whatever it was, she didn't have it. She squeezed a generous dollop of her favourite scented bath gel onto her loofah and scrubbed up briskly to eliminate all traces of the morgue. 

Although Molly had been determined to drag out the process, her fingers were starting to prune so she reluctantly turned off the water and stepped out, dripping onto her floor tiles. As she towelled off, she eyed her rumpled clothing hanging from the hook with disfavour, noting the faint creases from where she had clutched them to her front, not that they would matter when she stood next to Mr GQ outside. She hated changing in a steamy bathroom. It made everything feel clammy but she was not going out in just a towel what with Sherlock prowling around in her flat. God knew she wasn’t up right now to facing any more scathing remarks he might choose to make.

Standing at the sink, she brushed her teeth, patted some moisturiser onto her face before rubbing her favourite scented body butter into her skin. Molly made sure to take her time in applying some minimal makeup, nothing more than some blush, tinted lip gloss and subtle eyeliner. When she was done, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Well then,time to face the dragon in her flat. She stepped into her limp clothing, steeled her shoulders and left the bathroom.

She emerged into an empty bedroom. Molly felt strangely bereft and relieved at the same time. A quick glance at her alarm clock showed her 25 mins had elapsed, almost twice as long as she normally took in the mornings. Still, she wanted to drag it out even longer so she plugged in her hairdryer. Do him good to have to wait. God knew she was always having to wait for him. Molly chuckled to herself as she imagined an impatient detective fidgeting outside her door. She knew five year olds who possessed more patience than he did. Speaking of the man child, where was he? She paused in her drying when she heard a muffled thud and a yowl from her sitting room. 

A peeved cry rang out, “For God’s sake, Toby, you stupid cat. Are you trying to kill me?” 

_Ah, and there he is._ Molly smirked, _Good ol Toby. Go sock it to him._

More grumbling from Sherlock, “Ha, empirical evidence that while dogs will love you, cats are more likely to try to murder you.”

Molly ignored the comment. She finger combed her hair as it dried. She loved her new style and the stylist her friend Meena recommended was a certified genius. It was so much easier to upkeep, this new shorter length and it made her look great. She had been concerned about Sherlock’s possible reaction but he had said nary a word. Looked like John had managed to teach his friend a little tact after all. She thought back, reviewing the scene in the lab. The duo had burst into her domain in their customary manner. Sherlock had skidded into a halt with John close on his heels. She’d turned to catch Sherlock opening his mouth only to thankfully, snap it shut again with a grimace. He’d stood before her with narrowed eyes and a cross look on his face, one arm at his side, fist clenched while the other was held behind him awkwardly. She frowned at the recollection before her lips twitched. John had grinned a Cheshire cat sort of grin of hello at her from where he stood very, very close behind Sherlock’s shoulder. 

A little later, she stood surveying her empty sitting room, looking for a missing detective. No sign either of him in any other part of her flat. Toby, her cat, wound his way around her feet meowing plaintively. Absently, she bent down and scratched his ears. "Stuff this, " she muttered under her breath, irritated at Sherlock's disappearance. "I'm going back to bed." 

Just as she turned to go, the man in question stuck his curly head through her front door. "Finally, I thought you'd drowned," he grumbled, glaring at her. "Well, come on then. We haven’t got all day. You’ve wasted enough time as it is. Chop, chop." He disappeared without waiting.

Molly let out a heavy sigh, picked up her bag and followed him, stopping only to lock her front door, with its new locks, which she had been assured by a certain tall detective was guaranteed to keep all undesirables out of her flat. She snorted, _well, almost all_ . 

Exiting her building, she emerged onto a quiet street, illuminated only by streetlights. It was decidedly nippy out this early in the morning. Dawn wouldn’t be for a while. A light drizzle started and a fat drop landed on her nose, followed by a few more in quick succession. Looking around,she found Sherlock not far away, sitting at the wheel of a black car parked alongside the kerb with its engine idling. It started to rain in earnest. 

Molly hurried to the car and slid quickly, sinking into luxuriously soft leather. She fumbled with her seat belt only to have Sherlock reach impatiently across her to pull it down and buckle her in himself. She inhaled a whiff of spicy cologne and a scent that was pure male and uniquely Sherlock. She froze but Sherlock didn’t pay her any heed. As soon as she was buckled in, Sherlock pulled smoothly away from the kerb. 

Flustered and trying not to stare at him, Molly took a deep breath and made herself focus on examine the car she was in. She knew it was a newer model jaguar but wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone its model even if her life depended on it. She admired the plush, leather interior and reached out a hand to gently run her fingertips along the dashboard. Sherlock eyed her fingers as she caressed the dashboard and swallowed hard, his hands clenching the wheel. Unaware of Sherlock’s reaction, Molly continued her explorations. She half expected a camera crew and Tom Hiddleston to materialise next to her and smothered a giggle at the thought of being in a commercial being ‘bad’ with the handsome actor, causing Sherlock to look sharply at her. She quickly pulled her hand back onto her lap and clasped them together, feeling like she’d been caught doing something naughty. She tried to cover up by saying casually, “Ummm, this is nice, where did you get this?”

“Borrowed it,” was the short answer. 

“Sorry, did you just say bought it?” asked Molly in shock.

“Borrowed it,” he repeated, enunciating each word slowly and clearly.

“Oh, sorry!”

He rolled his eyes.

"I didn't know you could drive," she commented, surreptitiously admiring the way his large hands confidently handled the steering wheel. He had really long fingers. Her thoughts then veered off on a tangent as she remembered an infamous interview her favourite actor had given a popular fashion magazine. He had been very descriptive. She swallowed and looked away hoping Sherlock wouldn’t deduce why she was suddenly flushed. Molly shifted uncomfortably in her seat and tried to avoid looking again at Sherlock’s large hands on the wheel as she attempted to regain control over herself and her breathing. 

The car purred as Sherlock changed gears. "It's not exactly difficult, is it?" he replied, a little haughtily.

"Guess not," she acknowledged. She bit her lip, unsure of what else to say as she knew small talk generally annoyed him. A long, awkward silence ensued. Molly relaxed into her comfortable seat and felt her eyelids start to drift close of their own accord. She was starting to nod off when his next remark penetrated her consciousness.

"Don't know why they insist on all those tests and hours of practise anyway. Tedious. Any idiot can drive." he muttered.

Molly's eyes flew open as a sudden suspicion took hold. She stared ahead for a moment before turning her head slowly to eye him apprehensively, "Sherlock? You..umm, you do have a driver's license, d.d..don't you?”

He hummed in reply. Molly couldn't tell if it was in the affirmative or the negative. Hesitantly, she tried again, "Sh..Sherlock?"

There was a noticeable pause while Sherlock adjusted the rearview mirror negligibly before he replied, "I have a license." His eyes flickered towards her momentarily before skittering away just as quickly.

This by no means reassured the pathologist. She peered intently at her companion trying to read him. She knew Sherlock could look someone straight in the eyes while lying through his teeth. Strangely enough, he never seemed to be to able to look at John or herself in eye when doing so. In this instance, Sherlock seemed to have had done both. She considered his answer carefully. With Sherlock, his statement could mean a number of things. One, he had a license which actually belonged to him. Might be currently valid. Or not. Two, he had a license in his possession but it didn't exactly belong to him. She examined his face in the soft glow of the dashboard. Judging by his pursed lips, Molly knew he wouldn't be any more forthcoming on the issue so she gave up and slumped back into her seat praying they wouldn't meet with an accident or be stopped by traffic police. If anything were to happen anyway, she reasoned with herself, Mycroft would deal with it.

She leaned her head back against her headrest and gazed out her window at the passing traffic and buildings. The soothing strains of a cello played softly through the sound system and Molly started to get drowsy again. She wondered who the cellist was. Whoever it was was pretty good but she didn’t know enough about classical music to identify the piece. She wondered idly why it wasn’t the violin instead. She must have been thinking loudly again as his dry voice broke into her musings, “I also enjoy listening to cello and piano music, not just the violin, obviously.” 

Molly bobbed her head in agreement, “Obviously.” 

After a while, when she failed to say anything more, Sherlock glanced over at her. He noted the dark circles beneath her eyes and felt the slightest twinge of guilt at how exhausted she looked. He dismissed the thought quickly with _I do require an assistant._ John in his mind palace retorted with but not one half dead from exhaustion which prompted Sherlock to suggest, "Why don't you catch some sleep. I'll wake you when we arrive."

Molly stole a look at Sherlock’s profile and wondered briefly where they were going that was far enough from London that she had time to sleep and whether that in itself was cause for concern. _Sherlock’s being considerate. I must still be asleep in my bed after all._ Surreptitiously, she pinched her wrist hard. _Ow, that hurt. I’m actually awake._ Truth be told, though, she was so tired that she couldn’t be half arsed to care at the moment and the darkened interior of the car was womb like. She stifled a yawn and snuggled into her seat. She shivered and pulled her coat tighter around herself, causing Sherlock’s eyes to flick towards her again. It didn't take long for her to fall into a deep sleep, curled up in her seat. 

Sensing the change in her breathing, Sherlock looked over at her small form briefly, unaware of his lips curling up in a soft smile. He adjusted the heat upwards slightly before redirecting his attention back to the road, his thoughts troubled by the small woman beside him. He didn’t know what to make of his reaction to seeing her naked earlier and then he had barely stopped himself from inhaling her scent in deeply when he helped her with her seat belt. He was confused and Sherlock Holmes hated being confused. This had to do with feelings and sentiment, that much he knew, which meant he need to talk with John. He had the nagging feeling it might rather important. Unfortunately, his best friend was currently unavailable. Sherlock’s brow cleared. It just meant filing away the puzzle for another day. He just had to remember to bring this particular issue up with John as soon as it was convenient. Simple. He opened the door to his flat in his mind palace and tossed it into a temporary receptacle labelled “Questions to Ask John Later”. The container resembled a wastebasket placed right next to John’s old armchair. Hmm, it was rather full and starting to overflow onto the floor. He really needed to sort through and declutter it when he had the time someday he thought to himself as he closed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re wondering about the cologne, it’s Salvatore Ferragamo’s Attimo pour Homme (woody oriental) which BC used to wear a few years ago. I believe he then switched to Annick Goutal’s Monsieur (aromatic citrus) which he may well still be wearing. I haven’t frequented the fragrance forums for while. He supposedly became fond of citrus notes when he was working at some posh fragrance retailer.


	3. Why are We in the Countryside?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock arrive in Sussex.

Molly opened her eyes blearily. She rubbed her gummy lids with the back of a hand before rolling and twisting her head trying to ease a crick out of her neck. As she stretched in her seat, she felt a twinge in her lower back making her grimace.  _ Molly, my girl, you’re not twenty any more.  _ Swiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb, she grimaced when she encountered a slight trace of encrusted drool. She reached into her small backpack wedged at her feet, grabbed some facial wipes and hastily cleaned her face. 

Refreshed, she looked up and was greeted by pale, early morning light. A light mist curling its way over the ground brought with it the smells of wet grass, earth and fresh air. The twittering of birds merely added to bucolic feel.  _ We're in the countryside, _ she thought foggily. W _ hy are we in the countryside?  _

Wood smoke drifted lazily over to tickle her nostrils. She inhaled and smiled wistfully, remembering comfortable, fireside chats with her dad, which seemed so long ago now. Sometimes, she really missed him. 

She shivered and tugged her coat closer when she realised how cold it was now that the car heating system was turned off. Turning to the driver's seat, Molly was unsurprised to find it empty. Searching for Sherlock, she found the car parked on a gravel driveway in front of a large, red crofter's cottage fronted by a low stone wall. A small iron gate stood ajar. 

Trailing her eyes past the gate and up the garden path, she found him standing at the front door with an elderly couple who were wrapped in dressing gowns. He was being embraced by the woman while a silver haired gentleman had his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.  Molly wondered who they were for Sherlock to allow such familiarity. Mrs Hudson was the only one she knew of  whom Sherlock would permit to hug him.  Although she was fairly sure she had never met them, their faces were disconcertingly familiar. She bit her lip in amusement when she saw his awkward struggles to escape.

Sherlock gesticulated towards the car she was sitting in. He finally broke away and walked towards her, his black shoes crunching on the gravel.

His long, black coat swept the ground as he  leaned down to peer at her through the window, "Well, don't just sit there. Are you coming out or not?" Without waiting for her reply, he yanked the car door open. 

Molly unbuckled her seat belt and stepped out. She followed him round to the boot where he proceeded to unload some luggage.  "Where are we, Sherlock? Is Lestrade joining us? What are we doing here? I mean, what is the case about?" The questions tumbled out of her before she could help herself.

Sherlock shot her an annoyed look and hefted two overnight bags, one in each hand. "Sussex. No. Case." After a taking few steps, he looked over his shoulder and added, “Really, Molly, I told you all this already. Do pay attention. You know how I detest repeating myself.”

“What? No you didn’t,” Molly protested.

“Yes, I did.”

“When?” she demanded.

“While we were driving up here.”

“I was asleep!” she exclaimed.

“Hmm, explains why you weren’t paying attention then.”

"Oi!” she protested but before she could continue, something caught her eye. "Wait, is that my bag?" she asked.

"Yes, as we may be here for a few days, I took the liberty of packing for you," he told her. 

Molly grabbed his sleeve as he started to walk off. "A few days! Sherlock, I have a date tonight!”

Sherlock stopped still, then turned to scowl at her, “Molly, what did I tell you about dating?”

“Are you going to hold that against me forever?” exclaimed Molly. “I unknowingly date one criminal mastermind. One! It’s not like I’m a serial dater of psychopaths.  You didn’t suspect anything either.”

They stood glowering at each other. Silence grew, Sherlock dropped his eyes to where her hand still lay on his arm. Molly drew back like it stung.

She looked away to the side then her head snapped back as she remembered, “Toby! I can't just leave him alone to  fend for himself.”

“I asked your neighbour to look after your abominable feline," he informed her.

“What? I can’t impose on her like that!”

Sherlock huffed, “Look, if this case takes more than a day or two, I’d be very surprised and if does, I’ll arrange for the animal to be boarded.” He looked at her face and added grudgingly, “somewhere so luxurious he won’t want to leave.”

She thought and tried a different approach, “Sherlock, I still can’t stay. I have to work tomorrow.” 

Sherlock brightened, "I've already arranged time off for you with Stamford.”

Molly's mouth fell open at his high handedness. "You can't just …," she spluttered.

"I can and I have. Now close your mouth. You look like a goldfish. Not the most attractive look.”

Seeing that Molly was now wearing the same expression that John generally did before he let loose a punch, Sherlock added hastily, “Actually, he was more than happy to let you have a few days off. Something about HR breathing down his back about you having accrued an over excessive amount of leave entitlement.”

“So you thought that I would like to spend my hard earned leave on a case with you instead of a nice holiday somewhere?” she queried indignantly.

“Of course, what could be more fun?”

Molly flapped a hand in the air, “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe lying on a beach in Marjorica surrounded by hot, tanned guys?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Sounds dreadful. This is much better. Why waste your time on a beach getting sunburnt when you could be spending it helping me on a case? Much more useful.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. Oblivious to her imminent explosion, Sherlock continued, “You’ll enjoy being out of the morgue. Imagine, the thrill of the chase. A puzzle to solve. Fresh country air and all that. You can thank me later.” He smiled smugly at her.

Molly finally found her voice. “Thank you? Really?” she hissed in an angry whisper, not trusting herself to speak normally. remembering too late the couple standing not too far away.

He frowned, “You don’t sound at all pleased.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” 

He interrupted her before she could let rip. “When I told Stamford I was taking you to spend a few days in the country with me, he sounded positively delighted and muttered something it being about high time. As a matter of fact, he told me to encourage you to take all the time we needed.”

Molly’s expression changed to one of dismay. She asked with justifiable trepidation, “Did you inform Mike that it was for a case?”

His answer was quick. “No, why should I? What else could it be for?”

She moaned, “God. What must Mike think?”  Stamford was one of Bart’s biggest gossips.  

“What do you mean what must Mike think? Why would we care what Mike thinks?” asked Sherlock bewildered.

This man was clueless, absolutely clueless. He had no idea of the conclusions Mike would have leapt to, the endless sidelong glances and whispered speculations she would have to face when she returned to Barts. Typical. Molly closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath before shaking her head slowly in resignation, “You know what? Never mind.” 

“Why should I mind? Now, come along," he commanded brusquely, striding off.  At the little gate, he paused long enough to toss off, “Oh, by the way, I’ve let both Lestrade and Stamford know where we are staying just in case something more interesting comes up in London. If we’re lucky, we may not even have to be here that long.” Sherlock then disappeared quickly through the front door abandoning her. 

Molly trotted after him, seething. She slowed to a halt before the couple waiting anxiously. “Erm, hello? Morning? I’m Molly Hooper," she introduced herself hesitantly.

The older woman’s face brightened. “Oh, I know, dear. I’ve heard all about you. You don’t know how I’ve always wanted to meet you,” she gushed warmly. “William talks about you all the time. My pathologist this, my pathologist that but he’s never mentioned how pretty you are.” 

Molly blinked.

The tall man standing next to her chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “Violet, I don’t think she has any idea who we are. I doubt Will’s told her much, if anything.”

“Oh, that boy,” the woman said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, you must forgive me. I’m just so excited to finally meet you. You’re the first woman he’s ever brought home. Well, there was Mary Watson last Christmas but since she’s John’s wife, she doesn’t exactly count, if you know what I mean.”

Molly blinked, again.

The man quirked his mouth up in a crooked smile that was oddly reminiscent. He held out his hand, “Sorry, I’m Siger and this is my wife, Violet.”

Molly shook his hand automatically, her eyes flitting between the two people in front of her.

“We’re William's, or rather Sherlock’s parents.”

 


	4. No, no, no! Not Mycroft's bed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly meets Sherlock's parents.

Molly stopped breathing and simply stared, frozen. His parents. The couple did not seem to notice as they started shepherding her through the door. _His parents. He’s brought me to his parents’ home._ With a warm smile, Sherlock's father ushered the shell shocked woman into the cottage.

_Both Mike and Greg think Sherlock’s taken me home to his parents._ Molly thought to herself. She fought the urge to giggle uncontrollably. _Well, they’d be correct but not for the reasons they think. On the other hand, it is Sherlock so maybe they’re not thinking that at all! They’d know it could only be for a case. I’m just making a mountain out of a molehill. It’ll be fine. It’s all fine._ Her thoughts went round and round. Hyperventilate or stop breathing. She couldn’t decide.

Sherlock’s voice floated down from somewhere upstairs, “Breathe, Molly. Breathe!”

Siger helped Molly remove her coat and hung it up on a hook next to Sherlock’s Belstaff. _What a charming place_ thought Molly dazedly as she stumbled through it after Sherlock's mother. She had difficulty reconciling what she knew of the Holmes brothers with what she saw around her. It was homey and comfortable, filled to the rafters with knick knacks and photos that she itched to examine further. Alas, she was taken straight into an airy kitchen and offered a chair. She sat down mutely.

Immediately, Violet started bustling around preparing breakfast. “I’m sorry, dear. It’s only going to be a bit of toast and eggs. I wasn’t expecting guests,” she explained apologetically. As Sherlock entered the room, she quickly turned and rapped him on the head with a spoon, saying tartly, “because some did not see fit to inform their parents that they would visiting.” She mock frowned at him briefly before breaking into a sunny smile. She hugged the visibly squirming detective, saying, ”Not that your visits are anything but welcome, rare as they are.”

Sherlock extricated himself and flopped into a nearby armchair with ill grace. He grabbed a newspaper from the table and opened it ostentatiously. Molly watched their interaction bemusedly, wondering if she was dreaming because it felt surreal.

“However, I made some marmalade yesterday and the eggs are fresh. I hear you like them scrambled.” Violet turned to the pathologist, looking to her for confirmation. _How did she..?_

“Oh, yes. I love scrambled eggs,” Molly assured her hastily.

Violet cracked more eggs into a bowl, saying, "He said you did." She looked at Sherlock who was hiding behind the morning paper before reaching out a hand and pulling the top of it down. “Well, don’t just sit there like a great big lump. Make yourself useful and brew some coffee," she instructed him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and raised his paper back up.

Molly jumped to her feet. “I’ll do it,” she offered. “But you’re our guest, dear,” protested Violet. “I don't mind. I mean, I’m happy to do it. Make myself useful, you know. Just point the kettle and things and stuff out to me,” insisted Molly.

“Stop rambling, Molly,” snapped Sherlock.

“William!” said his mother aghast. “Manners.”

“Just let her make the damn coffee,” muttered Sherlock from behind the newspaper, "and it's Sherlock."

"I named you William," snapped Violet.

"You also named me Sherlock, which I prefer," retorted Sherlock.

"And what is wrong with William?" queried his mother. "It is your first name."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply when Molly decided to intervene quickly before a familial row erupted. “It’s okay. I always make the coffee for Sherlock,” she explained.

Violet turned her gaze on Molly, who was struck by how similar it was to her son's. “I'm sure you do, dear. He is a lazy sod,” she said, shooting an annoyed glare at her youngest son. She turned back to Molly with a smile, “Thank you.”

In short order, the table was laden with freshly brewed coffee and plates of warm eggs. Molly was retrieving some toast when Sherlock's father walked in, dressed for the day. "Ah, breakfast," he said rubbing his hands. He turned to Molly, "I've made up Mikey's bed for you, just ah, in case. I didn't want to assume."

"Mikey?" asked Molly, feeling a little confused over the elder Holmes’ statement. She refused to examine the implications of his last statement.

"Mycroft," answered Siger with a smile.

Molly opened her mouth to give her thanks when Sherlock exploded with, "No, no, no! Not Mycroft's bed." He lowered his paper, looking like he had bitten something sour. "She will sleep in mine," he declared loudly. His tone brooked no argument. Everyone turned to stare at him. Violet broke into huge smile while Siger looked quietly pleased. Molly merely gaped at him.

Sherlock looked into Molly's round eyes, "Just returning the favour, Molly. After all, you've let me into your bed often enough." At that, both his parents eyebrows threatened to climb into their hairlines. His mother, in particular, looked like she was about to burst from happiness.

He cleared his throat and explained, "Mycroft's bed will be too hard for Molly. She's used to a softer mattress." He cocked his head, smiling at her. "Evidently, she needs to sleep well if she's to be any assistance at all to me," he said sardonically. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as they shifted between his mother and father, taking in their expressions. He said flatly, "I use Molly's flat as a bolt hole and I take her room because we agreed I need the space." His mother looked visibly disappointed. Sherlock failed, however to notice Siger's raised eyebrow and amused expression.

Violet processed this information then frowned. "Wait, do you mean you kick this poor, sweet girl out of her own room?" she cried, outraged, "Young man ..."

Molly intervened quickly, "But, Sherlock, where will you sleep? I can't just kick you out of your room unless you're going to be using Mycroft's?"

Sherlock pulled a face at the thought. He replied frigidly, "You know very well I sleep but rarely while on a case and it'll be a cold day in hell before I utilise Mycroft's chamber. If that's all settled, I suggest getting on with it as your breakfast is getting cold." He gestured to the spread on the table in front of them.

They all settled themselves around the kitchen table. Sherlock glanced sideways at his mother and winced internally. He did not look forward to the inevitable interrogation. He'd try his best to avoid it but she was, he conceded to himself, a shrewd tactician. Still, it wouldn't hurt to review his list of tried and true evasion tactics and even briefly considered using Molly as a shield. Admittedly, throwing his pathologist to the wolves so to speak would be low, even for him. At least, he could count on his mother's innate good manners to prevail for the moment. If he knew her, she was already naming grandchildren in her head. He'd have to make it clear to her that Molly was simply a useful asset, well, a work colleague and perhaps, if he really wanted to go that far, maybe even a friend, okay a trusted friend, one that counted but definitely nothing more. Nope, definitely.

Molly poured Sherlock his coffee and sat it in front of him. She took a bite of her eggs and closed her eyes in appreciation. "Ooo, this is delicious," she said.

Violet beamed. "They’re fresh from our own hens. The secret is cream not milk."

Molly was putting a spoonful of scrambled egg on her buttered toast when she noticed Sherlock's empty plate. "Sherlock, aren't you going to eat anything?

Sherlock turned a page idly before replying, "Don't eat while I'm on a case, remember?"

"Oh, yes." Molly stared down at her plate before summoning courage enough to ask, "Umm, When did you eat last?"

"Yesterday, or possibly the day before that," he replied offhandedly, continuing to read.

Molly hesitated, then heaped a generous helping of egg on her slice of toast before placing it on his plate. "Well, you haven't really started your case yet and you don't know when you'll finish it so..."

"Stop fussing, Molly," Sherlock said irritably.

"Okay," she squeaked. Molly took a deep breath, blinked and then proceeded to ignore him completely, much to his annoyance, continuing with her own breakfast while chatting animatedly with his parents.

Violet's mouth twitched when she noticed the slice of toast quietly disappear behind Sherlock's paper and she glanced at her husband to see if he had noticed. He had. Mirth danced in his eyes.

Sherlock suddenly scraped back his chair and stood up, glowering at his parents who both assumed innocent airs. He extended a hand towards Molly. "If you are quite done, Molly, we do have a case to solve."

"Oh, oh. Of course. Sorry." Sherlock grabbed her hand and pulled her out of her chair. "I... I guess we'll see you later?" she stammered, looking backwards at Sherlock's parents as he dragged her out of the room.

As the front door slammed shut, Violet turned to her husband and said, "Oh, Siger, she's lovely and more than I ever dreamed of. She obviously cares but I wonder if he even realises ..." she shook her head and broke into a laugh, "but then he ..."

Holmes Sr chuckled, "Yes, it sounded lame to me too."

Violet clasped her hands in front of her mouth,"Do you think, maybe?” She asked hopefully.

Siger put his arms around her and drew her close. "There's always hope," he told her, grinning.


	5. Why Running Shoes are Always a Good Idea

Sherlock pulled the front door closed firmly behind him. To anyone who claimed to know him well, it could be said that he wore an expression close to relief. He dug around in his pocket for his ever present mobile phone. Retrieving said item, he proceeded to punch in some numbers and waited impatiently for the call to connect.

Meanwhile Molly busied herself with putting on her bulky coat, an item which swamped her petite frame. Privately, Sherlock thought the cherry pink puffer coat a monstrosity of a garment that should have been consigned to a bonfire along with the rest of her clothes. He was of the opinion that Eddie Bauer, the man who introduced it to the world of fashion, should have, by rights, died of hypothermia in the woods that night eighty years ago instead of living to inflict the result of his thermally inspired brainchild on an unsuspecting and sartorially challenged public. 

What was wrong with a good wool coat? It was a renewable, ethical and humane option that did not require geese to have their breasts denuded of warmth. The less said about synthetic alternatives the better. 

He knew now well enough, however, to keep his opinion to himself. Molly had grown less tolerant of his casual observances during his two year absence. This did not mean that she was now prone to histrionics. Oh, no. Far from it. However, the last time he had uttered, in his opinion, a fairly innocent comment on the purchase of a new jumper, a frankly hideous Nightmare before Christmas themed jumper in red and black, the tiny pathologist had gone and quietly drugged his coffee. He shuddered, remembering how he had learnt, quite painfully, whole new levels of meaning for a word that rhymed with ‘urea’.

"So, where are we going?" queried Molly, shouldering her compact daypack. It was her ‘Surviving Sherlock’ bug out kit which she kept ready in her closet. She mentally reviewed its contents, hoping she’d packed everything they might possibly need. With Sherlock, you never knew. One bottle of water, check. Ample snacks (thank you, John), check. Notepad and pen, check. Extra battery pack for her phone, check. LED torch, check. Evidence bags, zip ties, rope, check, check, check. One compact survival kit, check. One Level II military grade first aid kit complemented by a field surgical kit, check. It was surprising how much could be stuffed in a small 25 litre bag.

"To see our client. Who else?," replied Sherlock absently, with one ear on his phone. "No answer." He raised his arm in the air and waved the mobile around. “There’s plenty of signal. Why isn’t anyone answering?” Bringing it back down, he stared at it as if willing whosoever was on the other end to pick up. 

"Not everyone is surgically attached to their phone, Sherlock. It's still pretty early and it is the weekend," offered Molly.

Sherlock slanted his eyes sideways at her. "So?" he asked.

She tried to explain, "Some people like to sleep in on the weekends."

“I know that,” he huffed, “though highly unlikely in this case.”

"Nonetheless, you may have to wait till a more civilised time before visiting your client."

Sherlock rolled his eyes before sticking his hands in his pockets. He tilted his face up to study the sky, prompting Molly to do the same in puzzlement. It was shaping up to be fine day with clear skies dotted here and there with an occasional puffy white cloud. She failed to notice anything out of the ordinary. The air was crisp and clear, redolent with the sweet scent of warm, apple cider, the sort of smell you get when fallen apples are left on the ground too long, leading Molly to wonder if there was a tree nearby. It was the season for it.

Suddenly, Sherlock swung around to her, his Belstaff flaring. She jumped. He stared intently at her, head tilted, then asked, "Alright, what do you want to do then?"

"Me? You're asking me?" Molly squeaked, unable to contain her surprise. 

"See anyone else here?" he demanded.

Molly flicked her eyes to her left and then right, just in case before answering, "No?" 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and asked impatiently, “Well?”

"How about a walk? It looks lovely around here,” she blurted, unable to think of anything else.

He looked at her, considering. "Fine," he replied and immediately took off down the road, leaving Molly scurrying to catch up. 

After a short distance, Sherlock turned down a narrow path lined with Hawthorn bushes. Cheerful clusters of bright red berries sat merrily amongst the thorns. Enterprising birds flew in and out undeterred, feasting on autumn’s bounty. All in all, quite idyllic. Probably beneath the Great Detective’s notice but Molly drank it all in, secretly quite glad to be out of noisy, busy London. She slowed her pace to enjoy her surroundings.

Sherlock,quite unsolicited, soon decreased his stride to match her shorter ones. They walked for a while in companionable silence along the path which wound around the countryside. They came across a turnstile which they pushed past only to step onto a wide dirt track lined with rolling pastures. The couple continued walking. Occasionally, Sherlock would take his phone out, try to make a call, before stuffing it back into his pocket in frustration when there was no reply. 

After the last unsuccessful call, Sherlock glanced down at his petite companion ambling alongside him. Molly walked, swinging her arms with a happy smile on her face, the tip of her nose turned slightly pink in the cold.  
As Sherlock observed her, he felt a calm overtake him, the sort of contentment he enjoyed when he and John were alone in their sitting room, him with his violin while the other sat with his newspaper. He’d missed it, he realised with a start. Having a companion. Something to consider? _To have OR not to have. That is the question. To HAVE or not to have. That is the question. To have or not to have. THAT is the question. To have or not to have. That is the QUESTION._ Gah, he should have known better than to have watched that programme on the telly with the Watsons when he visited them the other night for dinner. It was all for naught as well since John still refused to accompany him on this case, instead electing to wander off to visit his sister. 

Still, this was yet another question he might benefit from John’s advice. He frowned. Hmm, that bin in his mind palace was starting to overflow. Perhaps, it might be an idea to start collating all these questions relating to sentiment and emotion, postulate possible variables, etc and with John’s help, arrive at suitable and acceptable responses. It would certainly save a lot of trouble in the future. All he’d need to do then was to identify the situation and look up the answer. Couldn’t be any more difficult than say writing an if_then programme. He’d need some help, he acknowledged. It was not, after all, his area. A questionnaire of some sort? He’d have to careful there so as not to skew the data. Followed by some simple biostatistical analysis. Didn’t he read something on computationally modelling human emotion in relation to AI? Could there shortcuts he could extrapolate from it. Oh, the possibilities. Sherlock brightened. Yes, one of his better ideas, even if he did say so himself. 

They continued in this manner for another half hour until Sherlock was roused out his contemplative mood when he noticed Molly chewing her lip. He sighed, "You have questions," and then inwardly rolled his eyes at himself.  
Molly started, "Er,"

"You were thinking too loudly," Sherlock replied. "Well, out with it," he told her.

"Umm, your parents' cottage is lovely but it isn't quite what I imagined you growing up in." Molly glanced sideways up at him.

Sherlock harrumphed, "That's because I didn't." They pushed past a turnstile. "My parents only moved to the cottage after I left for uni. Wanted something cosier. Claimed the old pile was too drafty or some such nonsense. Only Mycroft uses it regularly now," he informed her. Suddenly, without warning, Sherlock halted, causing Molly to crash into his back. She caught a mouth watering scent of expensive cologne mixed with a very faint underlay of tobacco off his coat before she jumped back hastily. Instead of complaining, he grinned at her and climbed over a fence.

"Sherlock, should we be doing this?" asked Molly nervously. "Aren't we trespassing or something?" She made to climb the fence, a move made awkward by the shortness of her legs and the height of the fence.

Sherlock reached out a hand to help her over. "It's fine, Molly. It's a short cut I know," he assured her. Molly decided to take his statement at face value and trust him.

She landed with a squelch. They both looked looked down at her mud splattered shoes before Sherlock just had to comment, “Honestly, Molly. Anyone else would have missed it.”

Molly refrained from speaking. Honestly, Sherlock didn’t even have the grace to get a single speck on his pristine trousers. What, did he have all his bespoke clothing soaked in vats of scotchguard? Looking back alongside the fence, she noticed evidence of a soggy nature. She smiled evilly to herself behind Sherlock’s turned back, humming wordlessly to herself _Just you wait Henry Higgins, just you wait._

“What was that” asked Sherlock turning around.

Molly put on her most innocent air. “Nothing, just humming.”

Sherlock looked at her uncertainly, “Right.” 

They had landed in a fair sized meadow, dotted here and there with a few large scattered trees. At the far end was a small hill, covered by a large grove of trees. Sherlock headed purposefully towards it. Molly trudged dutifully behind him. Sixty metres away from it, Molly heard a loud snort from behind her. It sounded low and heavy. 

Apprehensively, she turned her head slowly sideways, only to see a bull emerge from behind a sizable tree forty metres away from her. It looked very big, very angry and much too near for comfort. Her breath caught. "Sherlock?" she said in a strangled whisper.

"I see it. Don't make any sudden moves. Just continue walking away slowly," advised Sherlock quietly. Molly obeyed wordlessly. 

She inched backwards, step by agonising step. Fifty metres to go, forty metres. The grove of trees and the protective fence next to them seemed very far away. The bull cantered slowly towards them.

"Almost there," reassured Sherlock. At the sound of his voice, the bull lowered his head and started to paw the ground. Thirty metres. "Molly, I don't wish to alarm you but I think we better make a run for it."

"No shit," she breathed. The bull charged. Molly had never run so fast in her life. Adrenaline coursing through her and she fairly flew over the remaining distance, grateful for her choice of footwear. A good pair of comfortable trainers are always a good idea when setting forth on an adventure with man who owns a funny blue box. The same holds for going on any outings with a man who wears a blue scarf. 

Sherlock grabbed the top of the fence with one hand and leapt over it with the grace of a gazelle. He immediately held out his arms and hauled her over. She fell into his arms, trembling and breathing heavily. The bull charged to a stop right in front of the fence. Sherlock reacted by forcefully pulling Molly further away, losing his balance in the process. They fell in a heap onto the damp grass with him on his back cushioning her fall.

The bull snorted again at them. After what seemed like an interminable length of time, it finally seemed satisfied it had seen off the intruders and lumbered away. 

They lay on the ground trying to catch their breaths, Sherlock’s arms wrapped tightly around her. Molly was still shaking in his arms when she felt his broad chest rumble. She lifted her face up to see him smirking down at her, his eyes alight with amusement. "Apologies. Durham sometimes lets his bull out into this pasture. Today must have been one of those days.” She jerked away from him when he guffawed, “You should have seen your face." 

Irate, Molly punched him in the arm, "You twat!" she said angrily. "We could have been killed." He merely grinned at her, incensing her further. Molly pressed her hands down on his chest to push herself off but Sherlock tightened his grip involuntarily causing her to fall back down on him causing them both to emit little oofs of surprise. Breasts heaving, cheeks flushed, Molly wiggled out of Sherlock’s surprisingly strong grasp and struggled to her feet. He let her go with some reluctance, much to his own surprise.

Molly stood up unsteadily, readjusted her lopsided backpack and patted her disheveled hair before giving it up as a lost cause. She glared down at Sherlock, took a deep breath, shrugged her daypack higher on her shoulders, then turned on her heel and stalked off up the small path between the trees. Sherlock’s grin disappeared at her retreating back.


	6. Killing Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly threatens to kill Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter. No betas. Just lil' ol' me.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet, his arms feeling oddly bereft. The scent of Molly’s hair lingered in his nostrils so he shook his head to clear it. As he stared at her retreating back, he tried to work out what had gone wrong. He started to suspect that he may have been a tad insensitive. In his head, John stood with his hands on his hips, giving him _“the look”_ and saying, _“Mate, laughing at someone after they’ve had a considerable fright is considered a bit not nice. You might want to apologise for that.”_ Sherlock’s eyes shifted from side to side as he assimilated this information. Mind palace John added, _“Molly may have, ah, appreciated some physical reassurance instead.”_ Sherlock’s brow cleared. _Ah, I see. Thank you John. I should gone for the comforting pat on the shoulder move instead._ Mind palace John stared at him for a moment before shaking his head, _“I can see we have a lot of work to do.”_ Sherlock glanced sharply back at his imaginary friend and queried, _“Work? What work?”_ but mind palace John had already departed.

Sherlock then realised with a start that he’d already lost sight of Molly and took off after her. “Wait! Molly, wait!” His long legs caught him up easily. She did not stop so he grabbed her arm and swung her around. She stared stormily at him before looking away, blinking furiously from repressed tears. He looked at her flushed face, quickly deducing her. Emotions danced across her expressive face. She was in equal parts embarrassed at having fallen clumsily on him, aroused at having been held in his arms in a somewhat intimate manner, humiliated at having been laughed at for her fear and angry at his insensitivity.

Right. Apologies were in order then. “I am sorry, Molly. Really, I am. shouldn’t have laughed,” he whispered. Molly continued to fume and refused to meet his eyes. He paused, then added, “It was inappropriate and insensitive of me.”

At this, Molly lifted her head up startled. She braved a look at his face and wondered at his expression. Apprehension? Concern? Uncertainty? When was Sherlock ever uncertain about anything and he was apologising too? Despite herself, she cracked a small smile, “Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock was relieved. He waggled a hand, “John wasn’t happy with me either when I laughed at having tricked him into believing that terrorist bomb was really going to go off.”

Molly couldn’t help herself and giggled. She snorted, “You’re a colossal ass, you know.”

He shrugged and rolled his eyes. “What can I say? You’re not the first one to tell me that.”

“Well, they’re right. You are,” Molly said firmly.

Sherlock lifted her chin with a finger and gave her his very best puppy dog look. “I know. Forgive me anyway?”

Molly stared into his clear eyes, feeling like she could drown in their glacial depths. Dear God, she was never going to get over him at this rate. She blinked and released a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “I guess so.” 

He smiled and said simply, "Thank you." They stood like this for a moment longer until Sherlock realised he was still touching her. He dropped his hand quickly and clasped it behind his back, looking for all the world like a little boy caught with his his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

Molly shook her head and said exasperatedly, “Git. You know I always forgive you. I’m awesome that way.”

Sherlock tilted his head and considered her. “Yes, you are, Molly Hooper,” he agreed softly.

He was looking at her strangely again. Molly didn’t know what to make of it. He looked, almost, well, fond, but Sherlock Holmes didn’t do fond, especially not for her, surely? Whatever it was, it made her feel good. She straightened her spine and jabbed a finger into his chest for emphasis, “I am, aren’t I? And don’t you forget it.”

“I won’t.”

Molly tilted her head back and squinted at him, “See that you don’t. While we’re at it, no more insults, manipulations or scaring off potential dates with your deductions.” Sherlock frowned at this last bit but let her continue. “Or I’ll kill you again, for real this time and dispose of your body so efficiently that it’ll take Sherlock Holmes to solve your murder.” She frowned, “ ‘cept you’d be dead. So you’ll be one of those unsolved cold cases.” 

Sherlock nodded and said gravely, “I had better make sure then never to piss you off.” He thought for a moment before adding a caveat, “not deliberately anyway.”

She considered this for a moment, “Fair enough. Can’t expect miracles. You being who you are after all.” She grinned sassily, “but I promise, if I ever do end up murdering you, I’ll make sure it’ll be a six or seven, at the very least.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Puhleaze, it’ll have to be a perfect ten if you want to stand any chance of killing me.”

“What? No! Eight.” 

“A nine at the very least,” he retorted.

Molly crossed her arms. “Even you have only ever solved a case rated a nine just once and you had help from Mycroft. Eight and that’s my last offer. Only because it’s you. ”

Sherlock scowled, “Fine, but you’d have to do my murder by yourself. No assistance.”

“Deal.”

Sherlock grinned, “Great. I have a few scenarios worked out that we could discuss.”

“It won’t work if you already know how I’m going to kill you. Besides, I have a few ideas myself,” Molly informed him loftily.

Sherlock looked at her condescendingly, “I am sure you do but mine would be vastly better. Stands to reason.”

Molly huffed and narrowed her eyes at him, “Don’t be so sure. I think I could surprise you.” A thought struck her. “Wait, are we arguing about how to kill you?”

They stared at each other then burst out laughing. Sherlock took a step back. The sun was shining, birds were singing, okay, not singing but definitely twittering or something and Molly Hooper was happy again. All was well with the world. He grabbed her hand and pulled her up along the path. "Come on, there's something I want you to see," he said excitedly.


End file.
